


In places I would never choose

by orphan_account



Series: Roads [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-10
Updated: 2010-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-08 20:18:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/79141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has more in common with the Winchesters than anyone expected, and the thing they're hunting is stalking them right back.</p><p>Warnings: This fic is darker than the previous parts of the series.  Mentions of past underage prostitution, some touching of the dubious-consent variety, and emotional abuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_November 22nd, 2006_

They're holed up in a run down cabin somewhere in the middle of Missouri before Dean realizes; that's not John.

Everything clicks into place and Dean's body goes numb with shock, the weight of realization sinking in. He doesn't know how long John hasn't been himself. But the man standing in front of him now, the thing leaning in so close Dean can feel the scrape of stubble from its jaw against his cheek, that isn't John. He cranes his head back against the wall, as far away as he can get.

"Aw sweetheart," it whispers, "don't be like that. You're my favorite. Well, next to our Sammy."

It smiles.

_July 25th, 2003_

Dean pours himself another cup of coffee. They've gone through two pots in the last five hours, the tin is empty and the recycled grinds taste like weak ash. John is sitting at the kitchen table, news clippings and computer printouts spread out over the table in a messy pile that had started out in some kind of order. More than a few bits have fallen to the floor, paper debris kicked up and left to settle in the wake of the night.

"What does it want us for?"

"I don't know," John says for the fifth time. Dean probably can't stop himself from asking, hoping for a different answer each time. "I don't know why or how. But it came for something that night. Mary interrupted it when it came to Sammy, your parents must've done the same. Collateral damage."

He rests his elbows on the table, folds his hands together and digs his thumbs into the very corners of his eyes. Shouldn't be this tired, not after a full nights sleep just yesterday. But Dean is pacing the room, bed to the door to the bathroom and back again and shaking like an addict. John's stuck trying to manage him, same way he's been managing since he pulled Dean up off the floor in the filthy rest stop bathroom and told him his parents had been murdered.

"What did- Are there others?"

"Yeah, a few," John answers without opening his eyes. Dean had spent the first few hours focused on _How can you know that?_ and _But why me?_ He's moved on to the others, his questions about Sammy grinding a little too close to the bone for John and Dean can tell.

"Where? What happened to 'em?"

"They lived. Some of the parents died, but not all."

"Okay, then lets go talk to them. Maybe one of them knows why this is happening, they probably want answers as much as we do. Come on, where's the nearest fire kid?"

"Dean-"

"You can't tell you don't have a list somewhere in that pile, names and addresses. How many-"

"Dean." They haven't ever talked about this, not in anything other than the vaguest of details. Dean had a vague sketch; the fire, the dark figure, and Mary already out of reach. John had spent the night filling in the ugly details, Mary's death serving as a sick mirror image of what probably happened to Dean's parents. And the details all match, at least as far as Dean knows from his foster kid file.

John's always known there were other kids out there, hard to miss when you're researching nursery fires. But he's never much cared, anyone that'd been effected was already in the rearview mirror and this thing had already moved on. The ones targeted lived or died, and John found out too late to do anything about it. He'd focused instead on the other signs - the weather patterns, the electrical storms that followed the demon around like flies.

Dean's not wrong, it's possible that these kids might know something, but after twenty years on its trail it's hard to admit that he's maybe been chasing down the wrong path. The fire kids, he calls them. A twisted baptism that leaves them dark and hardened.

God, he hopes not.

"Okay," he says finally. Pushes aside his notes until he can dig out his journal. "Nearest I've got is Scott Carey. Grew up in Indiana, no idea if he still lives there."

Dean rubs his palms together and looks at John like he can't believe he got his way. "Okay. Okay yeah, lets go."

They're packed and in the car in a matter of minutes, Dean shoving all the notes back into their ratty envelope and tossing them on the bench seat between them. John cranks up the radio, can't stand the silence and doesn't want to deal with more questions. Dean gets the idea, pokes through the envelope carefully reading and re-reading every clipping.

The roster of fire kids reads like a list of the damned and dispossessed. Entry one is Sammy Winchester; mother dead before he could walk and raised with a shotgun in his hands before his voice had dropped. The last entry is Dean. But somewhere in between is a record spanning generations.

It starts in the early 70s, the earliest records John can find that match. A rash of electrical storms coinciding with house fires, all families with newborns. Two, three weeks out of the hospital newborns, and that had thrown John at first - taken him years to piece together the related pieces out of thousands of tragedies that just didn't quite fit the mold. He was sure, now. Whatever it was it was doing, the demon had started out with even younger kids.

All of them had died within weeks of the fire; all with unexplained illnesses and sketchy diagnoses.

The survival rate improved slightly in the next batch. The success didn't last. Of the eleven children targeted in '75, only two had lived to adulthood. Three had set themselves on fire, barely old enough to be in kindergarten, five more had been committed at around the same age, evidence of horrific crimes stacked up against them and a shuffled into a system incapable of handling them. The two still alive were both in long term care for severe mental illness. The diagnoses were as varied and as unhelpful as John could expect. Psychosis, multiple personalities, schizophrenia; a buffet table of disorders to pick and choose. John hadn't been able to get access to any of them, but he'd talked to enough of the former nurses and guards to know that not all the hallucinations had been imaginary. Bad shit followed these kids around like a shadow, either caused by them or channeled through them.

It's not until the early 80s that the kids started reliably living to adulthood, safe and mostly sane. There are a few outliers that throw the curve, but the overall pattern is clear; whatever the demon is doing differently, it's a matter of degree, not inclination.

He doesn't tell Dean any of this. As far as Dean is concerned, his generation was the first and John has no other clues to go on. He keeps the list of the dead folded up and hidden in his wallet behind one of his few remaining pictures of Mary.

Scott Carey is too pale and too thin. He rubs his hands together and then shoves them in his pockets, looking around like he expects someone to jump out any second. They're sitting in the car about half a block down from where Scott lives with his father.

"Well, that's reassuring. Fuck, tell me we're not all friggin' rejects."

"Sammy's at Stanford."

"Yeah, but we both know you were 'roiding his wheaties or something. Kid's a giant, with a giant head. Those of us who grew up without special Winchester benefits need a morale booster here." Dean waves his hand at Scott, making his way down the street with his shoulders hunched and head jerking around trying to look in every direction at once. "Think he's a tweaker?"

"Could be."

"Looks like a tweaker."

"Lets find out."

They call the house line and no one picks up, John figures it's safe enough to slip inside for a quick look around. They cut through the neighbor's lawn and slip in the back, nice neighborhood like this and no one bothers too much with heavy duty locks, so John stands watch and lets Dean get in a little practice with the pick. It only takes a few seconds, Dean is getting better at it faster than John can track.

The house looks normal enough, cheap and worn furniture but well kept. Boring middle class with a side of plaid, and fuck, Dean's way of describing things is rubbing off on him. Scott's room is a different story. There are clothes piled everywhere, dirty dishes stacked on the dresser and a tangle of video game wires trailing from the tv to the bed.

"Huh. Life without complimentary cleaning service."

"Life on mind altering drugs," John says. The nightstand has a miniature pharmacy of little orange pill bottles on it. Sedatives, anti-depressants...anti-psychotics. Shit.

Dean picks up one of the bottles to examine it and John watches him. "Awesome," he says and shoves the bottle back on the table. "So where's the crazy finger painting of the clown strangling puppies or whatever it is crazy people are supposed to do?"

The room does look otherwise normal. Messy, but in a typical young guy way; the way John's first apartment looked before he and Mary'd gotten their first place. Dean is already half under the bed, pulling out shoes and dusty magazines but nothing shocking. Dean starts wriggling out from under the bed and John turns away to open the closet. He stops dead.

"Man, I'd steal his porn but it's crap. What- "

John hears the second Dean sees it, a sharp intake of breath and the floorboards creak as he stops walking. He wants to look back, check on Dean but he can't tear his eyes away from the sight of dozens of sick yellow eyes staring back at him, plastered all over the back of the closet wall. John hears Dean take a couple of steps back, soft thunk as his heels hit the bed and he sits down with a thump.

"Mister Mayor," he says, and John finally snaps out of it and turns around.

"Who?"

"Mister Mayor. He- oh crap. Nevermind." There's an unbelievable second when he thinks Dean is going to try to brush it off and move on, but Dean clears his throat and goes on. "When I was really little, I had these dreams. This guy came to me, he always looked different but it was always the same guy, you know? He'd tell me how to do things, stupid stuff, like. How to con the teacher into giving me an extra cookie, or how to climb out my window into the tree outside. I forgot about him.

"He had yellow eyes," Dean says, almost an afterthought.

"It was the demon." It could have been just a kid's harmless dream, but _he looked different but it was always the same guy, you know?_ The demon, slipping inside Dean's head when he was young and getting kicked around the foster system. "And he just left?"

Dean swallows. "Yeah. I just stopped having those dreams, no warning. Nothing."

John can't help feeling like they've dodged a bullet. If those dreams had continued, what? Dean would've ended up like Scott, worse probably; no family to care for him he would've ended up dead in the street somewhere before long. But John's still waiting for the other shoe to drop, no one just walks away from the demon's plans scot-free.

He wonders if Sam ever had dreams about a yellow-eyed man.

_November 17th, 2006_

Sammy is tough and smart, sure. But Dean? Dean is _adaptable._ I gotta say, John, I like him; never thought he'd amount to much but then he just kept soldering on. Good boy. Then he bumped into you and you've been training him up real nice, thanks for that. Strange coincidence, isn't it, you running into him in that bar all those years ago?

Life is funny that way, sometimes.

_August 1st, 2003_

John books it out of Lafayette, Indiana over Dean's objections.  "We didn't even talk to the guy!"

"Carey's on so many drugs, you think anything he says is going to be useful to us? We'd be wasting our time. There are others, we'll find them."

Dean still looks a little shaky and unconvinced, but he doesn't push it. He pulls the thick envelope out of the dashboard and starts flipping through until he finds the abbreviated list of kids. "Alright then, who's next?"

"There's one in West Virginia. I don't remember the town - see if you can find her on the list."

"Nimmi Proctor. Buckhannon, West Virginia."

"Looks like we're going to Buckhannon." John guns the engine and sends up a quick prayer that Nimmi is a nice, normal girl.

Nimmi looks like a normal enough girl. College kid, lives in an apartment just off campus with a couple roommates and wears those knit ponchos that remind John of the 70s and the smell of patchouli. But normal enough. Her and her friends all head out late one Friday night, dressed up and already looking a little tipsy. Dean catches the door to the building before it closes as they leave and lets John in a few minutes later. They've both got building code inspector badges clipped to their shirts. Dean is barely old enough to pull it off, John figures if anyone asks he'll tell them Dean is in training or some shit.

The apartment is unapologetically girly. Dean stands in the middle of the combo kitchen/living room looking like he's afraid to touch anything. There are posters of actors and bands on the walls, scarves and cutesy pillows on every flat surface, and a life-sized cardboard cutout of Aragorn from those movies. He's wearing a tiara.

"So, we're not gonna stay long right? I think I can feel my testicles trying to crawl back inside just looking at this."

"Focus, Dean. We need to check Nimmi's room and then we're out of here."

"You mean we need to check Nimmi's closet for any creepy art projects," Dean mutters.

"What are you doing here?"

They both spin around at the sound of another voice and see Nimmi standing just inside the apartment, looking upset and completely furious.

"I'm calling the cops," Nimmi says but doesn't make any move towards the phone. John looks at her, and at the closed door behind her. He didn't even hear it open. Dean is already trying to pitch their cover.

"Please just listen, ma'am. We're building code inspectors, working for the county. We've had some complaints about - "

"You're lying. Why were you going to look in my room?"

Nimmi still hasn't moved, and there's something about the way she's standing that's bugging the hell out of John. He's missing something big here, and if he could just figure it out then their lack of a any good reason to be here would be irrelevant.

Dean still hasn't stopped talking. "We're undercover. There's a seriel killer that's been targeting young people like yourself, we have a couple of questions for you if we could have just a moment of your time. Have you had any contact with a man with yellow eyes?"

Nimmi takes a quick step backwards, strappy heels clacking on the wood flooring and it hits John.  She doesn't have a shadow. The only light on is the harsh fluorescent one on the kitchen ceiling, leaving dark, clear shadows behind everything but Nimmi. John reaches forward, hunter's instinct overriding the concern that she'll bolt. And feels nothing.

They all pause.

"You're dead," Dean says blankly.

"I am not." She sounds almost offended at the suggestion. Folds her arms over her chest and rolls her eyes. "Astral projection, ever heard of it? I could feel you yahoos breaking into my apartment and I came to check it out."

"So, you can- Where the hell is your body?"

"Like I'm going to tell you. I'm still waiting for an explanation, by the way."

"You've seen the yellow-eyed man, haven't you?" John takes over the questioning; Dean is still standing there eying Nimmi like he expects her to dissolve at any moment.

Nimmi shrugs. "Sometimes. So?"

"In dreams or in real life?"

"Maybe both. If you're looking for him, I can't help you. Haven't seen him in months. Not like we're BFFs or anything, but I'd totally buy that the guy is nuts. He kept talking about a coming war and how I was chosen or some bullshit."

"Then what?"

"Then _nothing_, I haven't seen him in months. I figured he was a dreamwalker or something, maybe he got stuck in someone else's head."

Not likely, John thinks.

Dean steps forward and leans against the kitchen island. "How long have you been able to," he waves a hand, "project yourself?"

"That's not really any of your business. Now look, I've got nothing against the whole X-Files thing you two've got going on here, but I don't want to be any part of your freak investigation. So just a heads up, my body called the cops about three minutes ago, so you might want to hustle off before you end up spending the night in jail."

Dean spends the next sixty miles staring intently at the dashboard. John is lost in his own thoughts, wondering why the hell the demon is after kids with special abilities and whether or not Sam and Dean have any he just hasn't noticed yet. Nimmi is about the same age as Dean, only a year and change older than Sammy and that means shit could start hitting the fan any day now.

What bothers him more is why the demon seems to have gone quiet in the past few months. It hasn't contacted Nimmi and John hasn't picked up on any of the signs or omens that usually follow the demon's movements.

Which is why it takes him a while to realize what Dean is doing. John slams on the breaks and the tires squeal as he pulls over.

"Dean, goddammit! Are you stupid?" He gives Dean's shoulder a hard smack and the kid jumps, blinks at John like he can't remember where he is.

"Jesus, what?"

"Astral projection isn't something you mess around with. It's sure as fuck not something you try in a _moving car._ What if you couldn't find your body again? What if you couldn't get back in once you'd left? Did you even think about that?"

"Uh."

"Bad answer."

"I just wanted to see. It'd be useful as all hell on a hunt."

"First rule of hunting, kid. You're not useful if you're dead. You're not trying that shit again."

"Fine."

"Say it."

"_Fine,_ I won't try to use my super special mutant powers that I may or may not even have."

"Good enough."

Of course Dean doesn't let it go that easily. "But you have connections right? You know people that might know something about this stuff, could maybe help me out."

"No."

"It's like a superpower. You can't say no to a superpower."

"You can when a demon is after kids with superpowers."

"Right. But-"

"Dean. We're not talking about this."

Ryan Anders turns out to be a street hustler, running small money scams on the one-way side streets of New York. Dean and John stand back to watch the crowd, transfixed at the elaborate display as Ryan flips and twirls the cheap plastic cups, scrambles them around until even John has lost track of which cup has the marble in it. He slams the cups back down with a flourish and a cocky tilt of his head, broadcasting _try me, I dare you_ to the audience.

A young woman steps forward and then hesitates, finger swinging back and forth between the cups. She takes a breath and decides, jabs a finger at the cup on the left and bites her lip in anticipation. She wins.

"Oh man, you got me girl. Bad luck, I don't think I can let you play anymore, you'd just drive me outta business." He hands over a few crumpled bills and the laughs with her friends as she takes them. The next guy who tries isn't nearly so lucky. He loses twice in a row and has to be talked out of a third go by some of the more reasonable members of the audience.

It goes on like that for half an hour, and John has to admire the elegance of the hustle. Ryan lets people win just often enough that everyone keeps trying, eyes on the wad of cash slowly collecting in the shallow cardboard box in front of Ryan's makeshift table. What John can't figure out is how Ryan is tipping the odds; the choice of cup is always up to the audience member, there's no way Ryan has control over that unless he's misleading them somehow. Giving them a glimpse of the marble in the final flourish and then acting surprised and disappointed when he loses a few bucks. He's still racking up a pretty sweet profit.

Eventually the crowd thins out and Ryan packs up his cardboard 'table,' stuffing his winnings deep in a pocket and giving a friendly wave to few stragglers still around. John and Dean tail him from a distance, walking along in a casual stride. Ryan must spot him though, barely a block away and he spins around to look right at them.  John and Dean stop in their tracks.

"Is it just me or do we suddenly suck at the sneaky thing?"

"Or he has some ability that made us easier to spot," John answers under his breath.

Ryan takes a few steps back towards them. "You got a problem?"

"Just wanted to ask you a few questions. Are you Ryan Anders?" John asks.

"I might be. Are we done? Great." Ryan turns around and starts walking away.

"Hold up, c'mon man, we just want to talk to you," Dean says, running after him. "Please. We can pay you," he offers, and John raises his eyebrows. _We can?_ Dean looks back at John and winces, _hey, whatever works._

Ryan grins, warming up to them a little. "Five bucks a question, and if this shit gets weird, I'm walkin'."

Dean pulls out his wallet and blows out a slow breath.

"Okay. Have you ever seen a yellow eyed man? And- " he rushed to finish before Ryan can speak. "If you have, when and what did he say to you?"

"First off, I'm counting that as like three questions. Second? No. I haven't seen any 'yellow eyed man' and I don't know any samurai who smells like sunflower seed neither, in case that was your next question. Now pay up."

Ryan holds out hand, but Dean isn't done.

"How'd you rig the game?"

"Man, I'm not answering that. What, you think I'm stupid?"

"We're not trying to steal your gig, we don't even live in this city. And were not cops. I just wanna know how you did it."

Ryan looks at them closely, sizing up John and then Dean. "I'll talk. But only to him," he nods towards Dean. "You remind me of my paps, and I hate that fucker."

Dean looks back at him, amused. "Okay."

"Dean-"

"Yeah yeah, be careful, don't talk to strangers. We'll be fine, right?"

"Yeah man, don't worry. Your boy ain't in any danger with me."

They walk down another side alley and sit down on the concrete steps of an old loading dock. Dean looks up to see John watching from around the corner and waves him off. John turns away, leans against the crumbling brick and tries to remember why he quit smoking. Now would be a perfect time for a cigarette, something to do while he waits so he doesn't look like hobo waiting on the street corner. He looks down at the faded flannel of his shirt and the rips in his jeans, yeah cigarette or no he'd probably still look like a hobo. Mary would've smacked him for leaving the house like this.

Dean tells him he looks like a friggin' hick, but since Dean generally goes around looking like rough trade he doesn't have much of a leg to stand on.

Twenty minutes later Dean comes back and Ryan is nowhere in sight.

"So?"

"So- " Dean shoves his hands in his back pockets, "he can manipulate chance, or something. He just like, focuses his mind and usually things turn out his way. People don't really have a clue which cup the marble's in, so there's about equal chance they'll pick any one. He changes that, somehow."

"Just by thinking about it?"

"Yeah.  I mean, apparently."

They start walking back to the parking garage. Twenty bucks for a few hours, it's freaking highway robbery but there's no way John was leaving the Impala out on the street in the middle of the city. Dean is off somewhere else, thinking so loud John can practically hear the gears turning. He hopes Dean isn't stupid enough to be trying out Ryan's power. Messing around with that shit can only lead somewhere bad.

"And he's really never seen the yellow-eyed demon?"

"Nah, he had no fucking clue what I was talking about. Didn't seem like he was hiding anything."

"Doesn't fit the pattern."

"Nope, but you know what does? Nimmi wasn't the exception, the fire kids have powers. Some of 'em anyway. Must be why the demon is after them, right?"

"We don't know that."

"Uh, yeah we kind of do. It told Nimmi she was special, _chosen_. It must want us for something."

"It ever tell you anything like that?"

There's a hitch in Dean's step that John doesn't miss. "Not really. It was more like, if I could con my way into getting something extra, then I must have deserved it. If I was smart enough, if I was sneaky enough, I could be special. He never said anything about a war, but uh. I was really little, maybe that chapter was a little heavy for the kiddies."

"Maybe."

"You think Scott had a power?"

"If he did we didn't see it. Or he's too far gone to have any control over it, who knows what effect all those drugs have on things."

"Yeah."

They spend two years cris-crossing the country, tracking down the fire kids and hunting down anything they run into along the way. John keeps an eye on Dean, watching for any sign of power brewing; strange dreams or unexplained coincidences. He comes up with nothing. Tells himself he has to stay sharp, not get complacent just because everything has been so quiet and that's why he catches himself watching Dean sleep all the time.

Dean looks impossibly young when he sleeps, the years slip away and he becomes the shivering scared boy clutching a mirror to his chest. Quieter and calmer now, out of immediate danger but he still sleeps with one hand tucked up under his pillow clutching his knife and the other tangled in the leather cord of his pendant. He's put on some weight too, still slim but solid muscle head to toe. The first time Dean manages to flip him and get him in a solid hold in a sparring session he's so surprised he laughs out loud.

"Getting old, old man."

"I was impaired by all the fumes coming off your head," John pokes a finger into the gelled up spikes of Dean's hair.

"Oy!" Dean's mouth twists into a frown as he runs his fingers through his hair, trying to spike it back up again.

"It's okay, I get it. Trying to make yourself look taller. I gotta say, kid - it's not exactly subtle."

Dean rolls his eyes but doesn't really look all that pissed. He isn't actually all that short and he's long since gotten used to John making fun of his height. John is pretty sure he only has maybe an inch on the kid, but it's not like he's going to tell Dean that any time soon.

_November 4th, 2005_

Dean wakes up with a grunt when he feels the warm blankets ripped away. John shakes his shoulder until Dean reaches around and smacks his hand away. "Dean, get up. Now."

"M'up, I'm awake," he mutters. "What, where's the fire?"

Dean looks around blearily and sees John hustling around the room, ripping the newspaper clippings off the walls and stuffing them in a worn manila envelope. "Up now, we're leaving. You've got five minutes."

"What happened?" he asks, but John is already out the door carrying two of their duffels.

Shit. Dean rolls out of bed and pulls on his clothes from yesterday. Probably another hunt, he thinks, and tries to remember if it's close to the full moon. Ever since he found out werewolves were real he's been hankering for the chance to see one in the flesh. He's gotten used to random changes in direction, drifting along in John's wake the past three years and trusting John to set the course. He doesn't much care anyway, one crappy motel room the same as the next and two lane highways are the same the whole country over. But Dean is still really hoping for a werewolf.

He knows it isn't the second he gets in the car. John's jaw is clenched tight and his knuckles are white on the steering wheel, there's no coffee and no paper bag of donuts sitting ready on the passenger seat, just the rumble of the engine and they're off. He breaks after an hour of silence, usually wouldn't bother asking and just wait it out until John's ready to tell him, but John's mood is scary bad. He's usually pretty cool, almost distant, and Dean's gotten used to that. It's comfortable. But right now John is seething, eyes glaring holes in the blacktop ahead and forehead wrinkled in concentration.

"What happened?"

"Sammy."

"He okay?"

Dean's never actually met Sam, but they make a trip out to California every few months; swing by campus and spend a day or two parked a block away from his apartment. They stay just long enough to a get a couple good looks at Sam but not long enough to draw any unwanted attention. But Dean cares, if only in a distant second-degree kind of way he hopes to hell the kid is okay. And he knows he'll be the one picking up the pieces if he isn't.

"He's in the hospital. His girlfriend burned."

"Fuck."

"Yeah."

They drive straight through, twenty-something hours running on beef jerky and only stopping for gas. Dean steals his cell phone without asking and starts calling every hospital in the Stanford area, impersonating reporters and close family members all desperate for information. John has an entire section of his journal dedicated to shit in Stanford, all in the same cryptic, messy writing it'd taken Dean a full year to learn how to decipher.

_SW, hos-rbn ddn_

It's like trying to read a bunch of friggin' scrabble pieces. Dean rolls his shoulder to stretch out the crick in his neck and wedges the phone under his ear again to call Robin, who's either the deputy director of nursing or neurology, it's difficult to say. Whatever, he can fudge it. Four calls later and he doesn't have anything solid, patient confidentiality is a bitch sometimes.

He finally gets a hit when he manages to sweet talk a bored nurse into confirming they had a young guy check in late last night with moderate burns on his hands and arms. The clerk on the phone assures him the burns were treated and the patient is recovering well, but refuses to give out any more details.

"Sounds like he got out okay. I mean, nothing that won't heal."

John grunts. Dean doesn't know what's going to happen when they get to Palo Alto, but it sure as shit isn't going to be pretty.

Sammy is asleep, bandaged hands resting on top of the covers. John hovers in the doorway, caught between the need to go into the room and the clawing desire to get the fuck out of there. Sam is pale with dark bruises under his eyes, and there's a shallow gash on his cheek that's been cleaned but not bandaged. The first men on the scene'd had to drag Sam out of the house, hands and arms burned and blistering from trying to pull his girlfriend off the ceiling.

She was already long dead by that point, John knows. God, does he know.

He wonders if anyone has told Sam yet; if he's woken up long enough for it to sink in, horrible and empty. John's had twenty years to prevent something like this, and he's failed on every level. Sammy is hurt, can't even defend himself and probably doesn't want to, not anymore. Sam made his choice and John hopes to god he sticks with it, grieves and moves on and stays the hell away from hunting. It's too dangerous; John plans to wade right into it.

He's been fucking around, distracted by other lesser evils. Distracted by Dean. That ends now.

"You're kidding me."

"Dean-"

"No, you've gotta be fucking kidding me!" Dean isn't taking the news well. "He's hurt, and something is after him, and we're gonna leave him here?"

"Whatever is after him, it doesn't want him dead or he'd be in the ground already." John's voice breaks on that last part but he ignores it. Cold hard facts. "This thing is powerful, it could've killed Jess any way it wanted. But it replicated Mary's death _exactly_. It wants to pull him back in, it's pushing him. The farther away from hunting he is, the better."

"You don't think maybe he needs his Dad right now? What kind of father are you?"

John snorts. "Because you know so fucking much about family. Shut up and get in the car, Dean. This isn't up for discussion."

Dean looks pissed, eyes flashing with anger and mouth screwed up in a snarl. It's not an emotion John is used to seeing on him; grouchy, snarky, afraid, he's used to all those. But never pure, flat-out anger.

"Not up for discussion," John repeats. "I'm going after this thing, no more fucking around. You're in or you're out, make a choice."

He doesn't have to state the obvious; if you're in you follow my orders and you don't fucking second guess me. Dean should know better by now, John knows he'll remember just as soon as he calms down a bit. Dean stares off to the side, breathing heavily and hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Finally he nods.

"I'm in. Sir," he adds, an afterthought. First time he's done that without laying on the attitude.

_November 7th, 2006_

Ever wondered why you never bothered to pick up sweatpants for him? I have. He's still wearing yours, isn't he, Johnny-boy? He likes them, he thinks it means you care. Now isn't that sweet.

But I don't think you do. I think you like seeing him in castoffs. Keep the brat in his place, right? You never taught him to drive, never let him take the lead, never let him go off alone. No lies between close friends, John. We all know why you do it. Keep him all nice and dependent on you for everything.

But then what happens to poor orphan Dean-o when you've checked out? Let's find out, shall we?  



	2. Chapter 2

_October 19th, 2006_

They're just finished up a hunt in Salt Lake when John catches wind of one of the fire kids living in a compound somewhere in southern Utah. They haven't been able to track own all of them, there are a few loose threads; kids that wandered off or ran away and haven't been seen in months or years. The ones that they have tracked down all fall into one of two camps. Some don't appear to have powers at all, live normal enough lives and look at Dean and John like they're nuts when they ask about yellow-eyed men and unexplained phenomenon. Others have powers in varying degrees, all different kinds of power from mimicry to telekinesis.

So far Dean hasn't shown any hints of power, at least none that John can see and he feels like he's dodged a bullet on that one.

Sam dropped off the map almost eleven months ago, news trickling through in bits and pieces from John's contacts around the country but never anything solid. John's never really sure where Sam is, whether he's been following John's coordinates or not, but the only thing he can think is _anywhere but here._ Sam is capable, strong; he can handle the lesser monsters so long as John can keep him as far away as possible from the demon and the trail of fire kid freaks that he and Dean are chasing.

Aaron Macallister is one of the ones that fell off the map. Hasn't been seen since 2003 and just showed up on an FBI watch list for 'potentially violent cult related activities,' whatever the fuck that means.

"Aliens or demons?"

"What?" Two years and John still has trouble following Dean's thought processes sometimes.

"The cult. D'you think they worship aliens or demons?"

"We don't know it's a cult, not yet. Pack up, we're leaving."

The compound is set a ways back from the road, surrounded by dry brush land and a rusted chain link fence. They can't see the house from the street, so John parks the car down the road a bit and they continue on foot.

"Recon, only," he tells Dean, but that doesn't stop either of them from tucking handguns in the back of their jeans.  John catches Dean checking his ankle holster out of the corner of his eye. He waves a hand over his shoulder, _move out._ They set out through the brush, careful but not overly so; the fence is rusted through in some places and laying completely flat in others. Security doesn't seem high on their list of priorities. Privacy maybe, but not security.

Aaron Macallister turns out to be a complete nutcase. A nutcase with powers, if the way John's gut is twisting is any way to judge.

"One among us has been unfaithful to the group," Aaron says, standing proud in the center of a large room. "Disloyalty. It spreads, like a cancer. Makes us weak from the inside out. And if we are weak, how can we consider ourselves worthy servants of Our Lord?"

He spreads his hands wide, looks around the room with an open, hurt expression. Reeling in his audience and leading them around by the nose. He's damn good at it, too, and John's knuckles go white on the grip of his shotgun. John may toe the moral line, but there's a difference between a hustle and an outright scam; this isn't just stealing a couple bucks in a game of pool, this is stealing people's lives away from them. Their freedom.

Even crouched outside the cracked open window, John and Dean can feel the ambient temperature drop a few degrees as Aaron lowers his arms. "Can you feel it?" Aaron asks the room, as if there's any way they couldn't.

The small crowd gasps and shuffles on it's feet, drawing together instinctively. No one wants to be singled out.' It doesn't help, of course. A young man near the back doubles over in pain, crying out and already shaking with cold. Less than two seconds and his lips are already turning blue. Dean shifts next to him and John holds up a fist to stop him.

They both swear under their breath as the guy crumples to the floor in a heap.

"Our God has spoken, and his justice is swift. Brother Matthew must repent, or he will die."

Three of the followers rush forward to pick him up off the floor, afraid but relieved not to have been picked. The crowd disperses, people wandering off in in pairs and small groups, all of them deliberately avoiding looking at Matthew shivering and propped up by his friends.

"He's doing it," Dean whispers.

"Yeah. We've got to find a way to take him out."

Dean's head whips around at that. "Take him out - as in? We're gonna _kill_ him?"

"Hope it doesn't come to that." _But if it does,_ he thinks. If it does, he might have to. Aaron is using his power to control people, keeping them in line with fear and violence and even murder. John's seen enough to know being human doesn't necessarily mean you're not a monster, too.

"I'm _fine_, dammit."

"Sure you are. How many fingers am I holding up?"

John smacks his hand away. Damn kid took his first aid training a little too seriously. Aaron is a bloody mess on the floor and most of his followers have scattered off to god knows where. At least one of them is probably booking it to the police station and they don't have time for this crap. Dean is still fucking around waving his fingers in front of his face while John tries to tug the rag out of his back pocket. __

Recon only, my ass John thinks as he starts wiping down the door handle, the window frame; anything and everything he and Dean might've touched.  Fuck, they'll probably have police sketches of both of them circulating by the end of the week.

Got to burn the body. Wipe the prints, burn the body, and get the fuck out of here. Go off the grid for a while until the manhunt cools down, Bobby's got an old cabin out in Missourri, 'bout an hour off of 44 or 55. One of those.

Christ, it's hard to think.

Aaron had slipped off the deep end and Matthew was a human popsicle now. They can't carry the bodies out, there's not enough time. Can he really remember every place he and Dean touched in the chaos?

"Dean, sweep the house and get everyone out. You take first floor I'll take second. Check everywhere."

"Why?"

" 'Cause we gotta burn it down."

"Shit."

Paranoid little shit that he was, Aaron had stocked the basement with enough gas tanks for the backup generator to blow the whole house sky high. With any luck he and Dean will go down as missing presumed dead. Dean jerry-rigs a fuse and John sweeps the house one more time looking for stragglers. God knows he doesn't want any more human blood on his hands.

_He wasn't human, not really,_ a voice whispers at the back of his mind. John ignores it.

And then they're running, the ground beneath him swelling and tilting at all odd angles and every footfall seems to catch him by surprise. Dean's too quick for his own good sometimes, John does have a concussion. That's not important right now.

They've barely reached the treeline when the blast hits, a shock that runs through all of John's senses and makes his head pulse so hard his vision grays out. Dean grabs him by the sleeve of his jacket and drags him down into the brush, mostly safe from debris and hopefully out of sight. Dean's grip doesn't let up and they both stay crouched down and scanning the horizon for any signs they'd been spotted.

"We gotta go," John says and tries to pry Dean's fingers off his jacket.

"We gotta stop somewhere and make sure your brain isn't swelling out of your ears, you fucking idiot."

"Dean, " John shoots for that one tone that's never failed to get Dean to hop to, but maybe his head is a little more scrambled than he thought because Dean just stares back at him defiantly.

"We gotta go, now. First thing the cops are gonna do when they get here is set up a perimeter and no one's getting in or out of that without some serious questioning. Any one of those cult idiots can finger us as the bad guys. You can poke at my head all you want later, right now we have to _move_."

Dean swears and rubs a hand over his eyes, trying to wipe the dust away. The air is getting thick and gritty with displaced dirt and smoke, and John has to pull his collar up over his mouth to stop from coughing. Dean meets his eyes and nods, pulling his t-shirt up over his own mouth and setting off through the brush.

They move quickly but not quietly; the roar of the fire behind him and the scream of police sirens drowns out any noise they might make. It's not like either of them can really tell either, eardrums still ringing from the blast and John can feel a thin trickle of blood running down his neck. He has no idea how long it takes him, time stretches out like molasses and every time he blinks he feels like he's missed something. One of Dean's hands is twisted up in the back of John's shirt, the other resting lightly on his shoulder and John tells himself it's because Dean needs the support.

"Think we can risk it?" Dean asks in a hoarse whisper when they reach the Impala.

Shit. It's a stupid risk but that car is packed full of guns, fake IDs, and a whole boatload of other stuff the police should never get their hands on.

"Got to. Not gonna get very far on foot."

John doesn't object when Dean shoves him into the passenger's seat, but he does wish to god he'd given the boy some proper driving lessons before now. What in the hell was he thinking, assuming that they'd never get into a position like this where Dean had to drive? Stupid mistake, he won't make it again.

His hands are clumsy and stupid flipping open the glove compartment, even worse at trying to sort out the pile of hunting licenses he's got stashed away in there. He squints and grinds his teeth to block out the looming migraine, finally finds the one for Utah and shoves it in his wallet. Better safe than sorry.

"Anyone asks," John says as Dean fumbles the keys into the ignition, "it's father son bonding time, out hunting deer. I lost my balance when the explosion hit and fell down a slope." The cover makes him sound like a fucking idiot, but a fucking idiot is better than a dangerous idiot when you're talking to the cops.

"Right. And anyone asks we know nothing about Aaron or his freaky cult followers and by golly what was that big noise we heard?"

"Yep," John mutters back as his eyes slip closed.

Dean smacks him. "Dude, concussion, remember? No sleeping."

"Keep your eyes on the road, dammit. One scratch and you're detailing her under my supervision for the rest of your damn life."

It's not really much of a punishment, Dean _likes_ detailing the Impala. Washing her, fixing her up. Always under John's supervision, and it's not like he'd trust his baby to just anyone. His baby...

When John wakes up, he isn't himself. He yells himself hoarse in of his  own head, batters against the walls of his flesh and blood prison but can't move a muscle. He watches himself respond lazily to Dean's prodding, attentive and obedient as ever waking him up every thirty minutes to make sure he's alright. He can't make his mouth work to tell Dean it's already too late.

The drive takes hours, and even with John slipping in and out of consciousness he knows it hasn't been long enough for them to be at Bobby's already, especially with Dean sticking to the backroads and actually obeying the speed limits to avoid run-ins with the police. Some other place then, squatting in some family vacation cabin out in the middle of nowhere which would be fine, except Bobby's cabin is filled with all kinds of useful tools and wards. Here, John's stuck making do with what he has on him. And he still can't move his own fucking hands.

They stumble inside, Dean picking the lock and lugging the bag while John sways on his feet. He doesn't feel unsteady, whatever is pulling the strings is doing this on purpose. Fucking with John to put Dean off guard and _dammit, Dean._ Why aren't you checking? Why haven't you noticed?

John sits at the rickety kitchen table and Dean checks him out, fingers brushing gently over the lump on the back of his head that John can barely feel anymore. His head is still throbbing along with the rest of his body, but it's far off. Unimportant.

When he comes to he's slumped down on the couch, no memory of how he got there. Dean is sitting ramrod straight on the floor, keeping himself awake to watch over John and the kid must feel beat to hell but John can't help his rage. Dean should know better, John trained him better than this. Where are the salt lines, the hex bags...hell, where's the damn holy water? John needs to douse himself in the stuff and let the steam pour off, proof positive so Dean can get his ass in gear.

John can't turn his head to check for salt lines, and it wouldn't matter if they were there anyway.  The devil's  already inside.

The next time John wakes up, it's morning. He groans and rubs his head and it's still not him in the driver's seat. Dean is clanking around in the kitchen, comes in with a mug of coffee that John chugs down without registering the heat or the taste.

"How you feeling, princess?"

"Fantastic," his mouth moves without his permission. "Where th' fuck are we?"

"The ass end of nowhere. 'Bout an hour outside of Grand Junction." Dean takes back the empty mug, handling him with kid gloves when he should be armed to goddamn teeth. "Figured we'd hole up here for a bit. Cabin's got a radio, so we can check on news updates."

"Anything yet?"

"Nah. Reports on the explosion, yeah, but nothing on us. You want food?"

John knows that's not really what he's asking. _Can you keep it down?_ The answer doesn't matter, because his body says "Yes," all on its own. The canned soup is undercooked and bland, heated on the crappy little gas stove in the cabin and served up with one of those snack sized packages of dry crackers. "Where the hell'd you learn to cook?" He asks with a sneer.

"Didn't," Dean says without missing a beat.

"We got any new credit cards coming in?"

Dean looks at him, assessing. "You don't remember?"

"Maybe I shouldn't have to do all the damn work all the time. It's a simple question Dean, or are you really that useless?"

Dean flinches. It's a tiny movement, but John knows him too well to miss it. Something inside him swells up at the sight, darkness unfurling and seeping around the edges. Excited.

"Geez, sorry. Uh, yeah we should have some at the PO box out in Boulder."

"Good."

_November 4th, 2006_

He won't notice, I know that's what you've been hoping. Because I know you, I've been watching you ever since I stopped by to visit little baby Sammy. Not all the time, of course. Places to go, people to kill, you understand how it is.

But I know you, and I definitely know our Dean. That boy worships the ground you walk on, but he's not going to notice. And do you know why? Because he wants this.

_October 30th, 2006_

Time passes like John is living in a stop motion camera, moving ahead in jerks and starts with nothing but darkness to fill in the blanks. They spend a week hiding out at the cabin with the radio on full time, scanning the only three stations that actually come in clearly and listening for reports on the mysterious explosion in the backwoods of Utah. The witnesses must not be talking or the cops are holding out on the reporters, because there's no mention of a manhunt or PSAs about any suspects matching their description.

There are plenty of reports about Aaron Macallister's troubled past and apparent descent into madness. Dean looks relieved that they dodged a bullet. John clenches his hands and watches as his fingers stay perfectly still.

It's only about a half day's drive to Boulder. Less, the way John drives. And it does drive just like him, even with John on high alert for the smallest hint of evidence that Dean might pick up on, he catches nothing. Muscles shift and flex in those old familiar patterns and hands casual on the wheel. There's no reason for Dean to notice, no chance of fighting it off even if he did.

_How did you get in, you bastard?_

_Now, John. That's no way to talk to company, is it?_

_Fuck off. You can't have him._

_You have so much to learn, my boy. He's already mine._

_Bullshit._

_So much anger, Johnny-boy. You should be more careful about that, it scares Dean. You didn't really think he obeyed you just out of respect, did you? But that's not the point. He is mine, just as much as sweet little Nimmi, or Ryan, or Aaron._

I liked Aaron. You really shouldn't have killed him, he had such promise. And now you've really caught my attention, which is too bad because now I see Dean hasn't been meeting his deadlines like all the other good little toy soldiers.

John finds out about Daniel Elkin's murder through a letter they pick up at the Boulder PO Box.

"Bad news?" Dean asks.

"Daniel Elkins is dead. I knew him." It's all the same words, everything John would say but it's not John saying it. Then it reads the rest of the letter.

_Sonovabitch, he had it all along_, John thinks.

_You've been holding out on me, John._

"Sonovabitch, he had it all along," it says.

"Had what?"

"Nothing. We're heading down to Manning."

"O-okay."

They don't find the Colt at Elkins place. They spend an hour searching through the wreckage and all they find is the empty antique case.

"Coroner's report sounds like vampires. Why are we looking for this gun, anyway?"

"You don't need to know why, so quit asking. We've gotta find the nest, they must have taken it."

Dean shuts up quick and they head out to the nearest bar.

Two days later they're banged up and bloody but they've got the gun. John is sitting in one of the corner booths, watching Dean and mind running in circles. Something has the demon's panties in a twist about the gun. John knows why he wants the damn thing, but can't figure out why the hell the demon is chasing it too. Gunning for another demon, trying to tip the pecking order? He only has a blurry idea of the hierarchy, not much more than a sliding scale based on age and whether or not they're immune to holy water.

He doesn't care. If it wanted the gun for Sammy it's had plenty of chances to kill him already.  Cold comfort but it's better than nothing. As far as he can tell it just likes fucking with Dean. Screwing him up, twisting his thoughts to something dirty and wrong to get a cheap fucking thrill. Like right now.

Dean is leaning against the bar, probably tired as all hell and aching from the fight but smiling all the same. John doesn't remember much of the fight, but he's willing to bet the demon wasn't helping all that much.

"We're low on funds," it'd whispered to Dean before they'd gone in separately. "Distract 'em a bit, eh? And not that half-assed shit you usually pull."

Dean looks slightly taken aback but doesn't comment. John's usually the one reeling him in from taking stupid chances for a hustle, sometimes John thinks Dean is convinced he's fucking invincible. That if John's at his back nothing bad can happen.

_Sorry, kid._

And Jesus, but Dean is working it tonight. John swears Dean never usually follows his orders so eagerly, not without at least a little backtalk first. John would just ignore it, used to watching Dean flirt about as much as he breathes but the demon won't fucking shut up.  Endless fucking commentary running st full speed.

Dean is leaning over the table way farther than is necessary to take a shot; it's the most obvious move in the book but every schmuck in the bar is drooling for it. Dean shifts his hips and takes the shot, biting his lower lip in feigned concentration. An hour passes in a blur of tight jeans hugging the curve of Dean's ass and wandering hands drifting over his back, his arms, his stomach.

_You're a lucky man, John. You knows what's pathetic? He's doing it for you, all for you. He's not a whore, or well - _ it chuckles _\- not anymore I guess and more's the shame. Think how sweet it'd be, he'd spread his legs for anyone on your say so, let himself get fucked raw just because you asked._

_He wouldn't_, John thinks and immediately regrets it.

_Want to bet?_

John tries to deny it; lashes out and heaves against the weight of the thing inside him until he starts to slip away, awareness fading to the background. He can't go, can't let Dean face this alone even if he can't do anything to stop it.

It nods to Dean - the signal to leave, a sizable lump of cash on the table and most of the bar knows better than to challenge Dean by now. It doesn't stop them from offering; more than willing to sacrifice some money to catch a feel. Dean eyes the cash uncertainly and then nods back at John, it's nearly twice the size of their usual haul and John can tell from across the room that Dean was hoping to get more.

_So eager to please_, it says and John feels his face twist into a wicked grin.

_Don't, please._

Fuck, John never thought he'd beg a demon for anything.

They leave separately and meet up in the parking lot. Dean hands over the cash and John doesn't miss the twitch in his jaw or the way he wipes his hands shakily down the back of his jeans. He thumbs through the money, sick combination of disinterest and glee coming off the demon in waves.

Its good mood has nothing to do with the money.

_November 2nd, 2006_

Now, Dean? He's one of my favorites. But Houston we have a problem, because Dean-o hasn't shown a lick of super special power yet has he? You've been watching for it and I know you haven't seen anything, what with me being right up in your paranoid little head.

He's a promising young boy, a good little soldier. But sometimes even good little soldiers need a bit of a **push**.

_November 1st, 2006_

"See any good marks in there?" It asks.

Dean raises his eyebrows and nods towards the cash, but that's not the kind of mark the demon meant.

"I mean," it talks slowly, like it's explaining things to a small child. "The kind of marks you'd take if you were flying solo. This is a decent haul - " it holds up the cash, "but let's face it, it'll only last us a week, tops."

Dean exhales slowly, eyes wide; hurt and angry. "You're kidding."

It shrugs, "I wish I was."

"You told me I wasn't supposed to anymore. You- "

"Forget it, this'll have to do for now. Get in the car."

Dean obeys.

Another week and a half goes by and they're patching up from another hunt (or, Dean is and the demon is pretending to) when Dean grabs his jacket and leaves with a mumbled, "Goin' out."

"Hold up," it grates out in John's command-voice. "Where're you going?"

"Out." Dean turns around but he's still half out the door, hands wrapped around the frame.

"_Where,_ Dean."

Dean's eyes drop to the floor, from defiant to defeated in three seconds flat. John hates him like this, wants _his_ Dean back; tough and cocky and talking back all the damn time.

"Thought I'd earn us some cash." He shrugs, fake casual that doesn't fool anyone.

"No."

"Come again?"

"No. Now get back in here."

"I thought you wanted- "

"I think we can both agree it's better when we don't rely on you for the thinking."

Dean drops his jacket on a chair and sinks down on one of the beds, hands folded in front of him and one knee jiggling with badly contained energy and nerves. He's flushed; embarrassed and angry but he's not saying a damn thing about it and John is losing hope that he ever will.

_Your boy is kind of a pushover, John. Nothing like our Sammy._

_You don't know shit about either of them,_ John spits back and feels like an attack dog in a muzzle. Hean't even bark.

"Dean," it sighs, "I was kidding the other night. I thought it was obvious."

"No offense, but your sense of humor fucking sucks sometimes."

_Fuck yes it does,_ John thinks, vinegar and spite the only weapons he's got left.

_Would you rather I tear your boy open and use his entrails as party streamers? No? Then you should probably keep nice and quiet, John._

"If I want you to do something, I'll say so. Got it? You're not going out hooking alone." It pulls it off surprisingly well, this gruff mockery of concern. And both of them notice the emphasis on that last word. Foregone conclusion, if it asks then Dean'll do it, because he does anything John asks and that's never been a bad thing up 'til now. The demon wants to pick his marks, have control over even that small liberty for Dean.

John isn't sure why it hasn't followed through with the threat. A second later, he is.

"Can't have you fucking your way through all of Peoria, not right now anyway. We've got a job out in Salvation."

The only thing John knows when he wakes up is that something bad went down. There's a static charge in the air, something he's come to recognize through the chaos of war and the bloody aftermath of a hunt gone wrong. Dean isn't anywhere around. John grasps at bits of memory and comes up with _motel_ and _bury him in research_ and is relieved even though he's walking past the wail of sirens and away from a house on fire. But that's behind him, and Dean is somewhere ahead.

It wants to push Dean, and it wants John awake to see it.

"So," it says as it steps in the door, no way to tell how far he's walked or how long it's been, life just slips on by. "Demon's been here."

Dean's got the heel of one hand digging into his eye socket, probably trying to shove away a migraine, but his head whips up at the sound of John's voice like someone tugged an invisible string. "Here? Right now?"

"Earlier tonight. Took out a family over by the river." It sighs and shrugs off John's coat, tired and beat down.

"What do we do? Is there- Do we shadow the family? You think it's coming back?"

"Family's dead, Dean. Their little girl survived, found by the firefighters just in time." _Because I left her right at the top of the steps all nice and easy. Poor mommy and daddy didn't make it though. Natural selection, what can you do?_

"Is she okay?"

"The girl? She'll live. Her parents are dead, and you know why?" It doesn't give Dean a chance to answer. "Because we were too fucking slow to stop it. Have you gotten anywhere with the research?"

Dean fumbles. Of course he does, the research is a wild goose chase and the bastard knows it. It wants to watch Dean squirm, and Dean doesn't disappoint. He mumbles out something in the negative.

"Dammit, kid. This is the big leagues, we don't have time for amateur hour.  If you're not going to take this seriously, then I don't need you."

"I am taking this seriously! What, you think you're the only one who got their life screwed to hell by this thing? Boo fucking hoo, you lost your wife - at least you still had Sam. Not that that means anything to you," Dean spits out, hands clutching the table.

John wants to be happy for this defiance, but he can feel the demon goading him along, wanting this. Wanting more than just this.

"Poor little Dean, ran away from foster mommy and daddy because they were mean to him. How'd that work out for you, champ? How many men did you suck off and tell yourself you were just doing it for the money?" It steps closer, looming over Dean who's hunched over and already half out of his seat. "Because you had a choice, didn't you? There's always a choice. Could've stayed in the system for three more years and been free to do as you please, with an actual high school diploma to boot. But no, you wanted to be the cheap fuck in the bathroom stall, didn't you?"

Dean sinks back down slowly; not any less angry but still trying to diffuse the situation, so desperate to stay.

"Shut up." He means it like an order but it comes out like a plea.

"It's okay, Dean." It takes those last few steps, close enough now to see the fine tremors of Dean's hands resting on the table. "I don't blame you for it. You just did what you had to, right?" One hand creeps up, slides across Dean's back and settles on his shoulder. Dean is strung tight, hard and hurt and furious.

"Yeah. So did you, I get it." He swallows. "I'm sorry."

"That's okay," it says, gently squeezing Dean's shoulder. John can remember doing exactly this every time Sammy got sick or hurt.

They get serious after that. Or, that's what it says to Dean and Dean buys it like he's bought everything else. John claws and shoves and yells and gets nothing. They end up in this rundown cabin in the middle of nowhere, stacks of research piled up around them and pinned against the wall in some vague semblance of a pattern.

Dean catches on to the weather patterns and the fires in the 70s, all those hours spent researching alone bearing rotten fruit.

"This happened before," he says in a hushed voice, a solitary moment of realization when everyone else in the room already knows. "What happened to these kids then? They're older, they should have some clue, some..." Dean pushes around stacks of newspapers and printouts, digging out a blank pad of paper and copying name for name the list that John had been trying so hard to hide from him.

It smiles proudly. "We'll have to call around and get the records faxed tomorrow."

Dean nods absently, still scrawling down names and dates. It leans back in it's chair, fingers laced together and head tipped back. Casual. "Finish that and get to bed. None of the offices are going to be open now anyway, and it sounds like tomorrow's gonna be a busy day."

"Yessir," Dean answers without bothering to look up. He's been doing that more and more lately and it irritates the hell out of John. He knows full well the kid respects him, Dean wouldn't still be here if he didn't. But the demon perks up a little every time he hears it and anything the demon likes is something that John can't stand.

_I do believe I have miscalculated. You should appreciate this, it doesn't happen often. Your boy just bends and bends and he doesn't break, but he never really pushes back either, does he? He doesn't have that same fire in his belly that Sammy has, and I need that. Maybe I should introduce them, set up a little meet and greet for our boys and see if maybe we can get them to share some of their- ah, better qualities? I could._

I know where Sam is.

John snaps.

Dean walks out of the bathroom just then, ratty t-shirt and old sweats that have been through so many washes and suspicious stains that any color they once had is now undefinable.

"Dean-" John says, and for the first time in weeks he feels his own mouth form the word, desperate and barely audible.

"Yeah?" Dean looks up, alarmed. "What's up, you okay?"

Dean's forehead wrinkles in confusion, eyes scanning up and down for injury and then flicking away to check the salt lines automatically. John barely has a second of control and coherence enough to think _good boy_ before he's shoved back.

"I'm fine," it says. "Just tired of swapping out for the couch. It's hell on my back." It's not any less hell for Dean; without reliable backup from John on their last hunt he'd been chucked ass over teakettle into a granite headstone.

"I can take the couch from now on, I don't mind."

"Bed's big enough for two."

"Oh. Uh, yeah."

And God help them both, because Dean looks just a little bit hopeful at that. He tries to cover it up with a casual shrug, but neither John nor the demon miss the way his lips part just a little and he pointedly doesn't meet John's eyes.

_It knows where Sam is, it knows where Sammy is,_ keeps pounding like a drumbeat in the back of John's mind and Dean is standing right in front of him, unarmed and only half dressed. He hasn't even got any shoes or socks on and John is weirdly fixated on that. Boy can't run off into the woods to get away if he doesn't have his shoes on.

He can take control. He did it, one shining moment of freedom and if he can just focus he can do it again. Get Dean out of here, and then do whatever the fuck he has to to get rid of this sonuvabitch.

_Not so fast, John._ It whispers to him. _First I want to have a little snuggle time with your boy._

_Why?_ He throws back.

_Because I can. And because I really, really want your boy to learn how to say 'no.' That's a good thing, isn't it? See, we don't have to be enemies, John. I'm just trying to teach him a lesson._

"Come on," it says to Dean, reaching around and pushing a hand against Dean's lower back. Right against the dark purple bruising John knows is there. Dean flinches at the touch but walks forward anyway, climbs into bed without protesting. It strips off John's jeans and his shirt, flicks off the lights and climbs in next to Dean.

It doesn't do anything right away. John lets the tension build, waiting to snap; hoping and praying to snap. Last time he'd had word, Sam had been in Colorado, nearly two months ago now. Best case scenario, Sammy's being watched. Worst case? He's been taken, possessed, god knows what. Sammy was in enemy hands and Dean was a hair's breadth away from spreading and letting this fucker take whatever he wants. And John can't stop any of it.

Coming to the surface this time is like drifting through smog, just a vague feeling of movement and dark indistinct surroundings until he snaps back to consciousness and feels his hand stroking down Dean's back. He stops.

"You have to leave," John pushes out in a rush. Could lose control any second and he has to make Dean understand. "Leave now. It's the demon, I can't -"

Dean makes a sleepy noise, pushes up on his arms and squints blearily at John.

He gets shoved back again. Not as far this time, not as strong. So close to the surface it almost hurts not to be able to move. He can feel his hand trailing farther down Dean's back, fingers pressing right into the crease of his ass, the twitch of Dean's muscles as he tries to hold still.

"Sir?" Dean asked, confused but a little more awake now.

"Shh."

John's hand moves back up, fingers catching in the soft fabric as he watches Dean turn away; eyes closed, forehead pressed to the sheets and his shoulders pulled up tight. Dean's skin is soft and still warm from the shower, getting warmer as his hand slips under the hem of Dean's sweatpants and his fingers sink right back to where they'd just been, no fabric now to separate them from Dean's bare skin.

"I don't -" Dean shifts down on the bed, away from John's hand but not far enough.

_Goddammit, Dean. Say it!_ John pleads and pushes out, feels his fingers just barely twitch in response against Dean's lower back. So close to the surface but it's not enough. The demon steals back control, presses his hand down _hard_, right onto the mottled bruising. Dean cries out and tries to push up and twist away simultaneously.

Things move too fast for John to track. It shoves down one more time, drawing another cry from Dean and then sinks back. John is back in control; barely has time to wonder if he should back the fuck off or grab Dean to keep him from falling off the bed before Dean grates out in a tone John doesn't even recognize, "_Don't touch me._"

And John is the one in control, except that he isn't. His hand snaps back before he can even process the words.

"Don't touch me," Dean repeats, his tone different and less certain than it was just seconds ago.

John slams his eyes shut, starts what he should have been able to do weeks ago.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus -"

"I'm not done yet, Johnny-boy!" The demon slams to the forefront so hard it leaves John dizzy, only vaguely aware of Dean cursing and scrambling backwards off the bed.  He catches on quickly enough now that he's with the fucking program.

But "omnis satanica- " is all Dean gets out before he flies back against the wall, pinned there by invisible power.

"Now Dean, there's no need to use such foul language. All I want to do is try a little experiment. Your initial results look very promising, young man," it says like a concerned school teacher. "So lets try that again."

It climbs over the bed toward Dean, and John can see how Dean is struggling and trying to speak. An exorcism takes too damn long for either of them to manage, even working together and he's pretty sure the gun is tucked away in John's duffel bag. Dean doesn't even know what the Colt can do. John's hands come up to bracket Dean's hips, thumbs slipping just underneath his t-shirt and digging into his stomach.

"You can talk Dean, say anything you like."

It pulls Dean's sweatpants down slowly, staring straight into his eyes and daring him to object.

"Stop, please," he begs weakly, but the demon shakes his head.

"No no no, are you asking me or telling me? Try again, this time with feeling."

Dean sucks in a breath, eyebrows pulling together mouth scrunched up. John knows that expression, sees it every time they're down to their last round and running out of options. It's the second right before Dean's mind flips into overdrive and he pulls some crazy and dangerous stunt that only works because God loves fools. Something clicks.

"_Get off me._"

The demon pulls away immediately. "Much better. I always said you were a quick study. Now, I'm going to give you some time to practice with that and I'll see you again," it winks, " real soon."

John isn't aware of much after that. It leaves him, he feels it rushing out; pulling and tearing him apart from inside as it floods out of his throat and the feeling seems to go on forever. When he can think again, he blinks down at the floor and stares until it stops graying in and out on him. He looks up at Dean, standing with his hands braced against the wall and his sweatpants still pulled down obscenely low on his thighs.

"How long?" he asks shakily.

John has to swallow a few times to get his throat working again. It still comes out raspy and thick. "Since Utah."

"Oh fuck."

"Yeah."

John looks away, stays down on his knees because Dean looks like any sudden movements will send him running. "Pull your pants back up."

He can't help watching out of the corner of his eye as Dean complies, flushed red and uncomfortable. "I didn't imagine that did I?"

"Try it."

"It said it wants me practicing, should I really -"

"Try it. Just this once, just so we know for sure."

"_Stand up_," Dean says, and the world tilts and slides out of focus as John stands up without meaning to.

Dean wipes his palms down the front of his sweatpants, mouth hanging open and eyes wide.  John has to close his eyes and dig his fingernails into his palms to stay awake and upright.

Eventually Dean breaks the silence.  "Okay. Right so, that happened."

"We need to leave. It knows we're here, we need to leave."

Dean is nodding, edging around the room and shoving his feet into his sneakers without bothering to change. He's staying as far away from John as he can but both of them ignore it for now. Other things to think about right now.

Sam.

"We've gotta find Sammy. It said it knows where he is, either it's watching him or it's got him. We have to find him."

John grabs his jeans from the floor and pulls them on, feels itchy in his own skin knowing barely an hour ago the demon had stripped them off and left them there. They don't have time for this. He rips through his duffel looking for the Colt. Pulls everything out and shakes it down. The Colt is gone.

"Where's the gun?"

"The one Elkins had?"

"_Yes_, the Colt. Where is it?"

"You-  He took it with him back in Salvation." Dean shrugs, "I haven't seen it since."

"Fuck."

"What's the big deal with the - "

"Fuck! That gun was all we had." John takes a deep breath and stares up at the ceiling. "Samuel Colt made that gun back in 1835. Legend says it can kill anything."

"Anything as in 'our kind' of anything?"

"Yeah. Demon's got it stashed somewhere in Salvation, or handed it off to an underling or something. Shit." His head is spinning and his mouth feels dry. "I've gotta find Sam first"  He pauses, no easy way to ask this.  "You still with me?"

Dean hesitates. "Christo."

John doesn't flinch.

"I'm with you."


End file.
